Wolves' Heads
by Blue Fenix
Summary: Etienne and Isabeau of Navarre (Ladyhawke) find themselves the victims of banditry in Nottingham, England (Robin of Sherwood)


Wolves' Heads  
by Blue Fenix  
  
"Thereof no force," than sayde Robyn;"   
"We shall do well inowe,   
But loke ye do no hosbonde harm  
That tyleth with his ploughe."  
  
"No more ye shall no gode yeman  
That walketh by grene wood shawe,   
Ne no knyght ne no squyer  
That wol be a gode felawe."  
  
-- A Gest of Robyn Hode (c. 1400)  
  
  
  
The big black stallion was a little older now, but he still moved like a dancer. Navarre glanced sideways at the grey Arabian that carried his wife. Lady Isabeau, five months gone in pregnancy, looked like a young goddess. Her condition had added to her radiance without, as yet, making her too uncomfortable -- God send that that continue! Isabeau's horse had dropped behind a bit; Navarre slowed Goliath until they were in touching distance again. "Do you want to rest a little?" he asked.  
  
Isabeau shook her head and gestured at the sunlit forest that spread along the left side of the trail. "No. I was just admiring how beautiful a wilderness can be," she showed an elfin smile, "especially when one doesn't have to sleep in it!"  
  
Navarre returned the smile. "You had more sleep than I did in those days. I think I lived two years on catnaps. We're just crossing a corner of the forest, if that monk spoke true; Nottingham ought to be close at hand." They'd spent the last two months in England, visiting an Angevin cousin of Isabeau's. Now that the old man had died, they were returning to Navarre's lands in southern France by slow stages. They'd left Phillipe in charge of their baggage and their small entourage two days ago. Navarre and his lady were taking this alternate route on the lame excuse that it was a "shortcut" -- it wasn't, really -- but mainly to spend time alone together, otherwise difficult on the road. The trail turned left, taking them into the woods in earnest.   
  
"That friar said the road skirted Sherwood, not that it cut straight across," Navarre commented. "He was probably as lost as we and ashamed to admit it."  
  
"Think of the adventure," Isabeau said gaily. "Cousin Michael's keep wasn't the most interesting of places, Lord rest him." They continued into the forest.  
  
Navarre stopped Goliath a moment, hesitant.  
  
"What is it?" Isabeau picked up her husband's mood, as always.  
  
"I don't know." Navarre reached back to the crossbow that hung over his right-hand saddlebag and pulled it back to load it.  
  
"I wouldn't." A giant stood in the road ahead of them with a longbow that would be Navarre's height, unstrung. It was strung, nocked, and aimed at the French knight's heart. The woods rustled on each side of the road and disgorged six more outlaws: a young man, a boy, an older man with the look of a mercenary, a Saracen, a wild-haired girl -- and the monk who'd pointed out this road. All but the monk aimed longbows. "We're the toll collectors of Sherwood," said the giant. "The price is all you carry."  
  
Navarre turned his horse in a slow circle, watching them all. He'd seen peasant revolts before. At worst whole fiefs could be burned and outraged. It took every bit of his control not to charge and ride them down at any cost. If Isabeau had been in full health he might have risked it to cut her an escape route, but hard riding now might kill her. So might these renegades, if Navarre did nothing. Which was the least risky course?   
  
Navarre decided to parley for the moment; since this archer-girl seemed a free member of their tribe, their intentions might not be the worst of all. If they were ... mobs tended to scatter when the lost their leaders, and Navarre felt certain he could kill one man or more before the longbows stopped him. He looked over the outlaws, weighing them, and spoke directly to a young man with dark hair and clear, steady eyes. "What do you want?"  
  
"He knows you, Robin!" said the mercenary type.  
  
Navarre shook his head. "Anyone who's seen a wolf pack can pick out the lead male." His blue eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" His hand moved closer to the jeweled hand-and-a-half sword on his saddle.  
  
The youngster met Navarre's gaze and smiled through it as if armed robbery was some merry sport. "Your money only," he said as if reading Navarre's mind. "We're free men, not devils."  
  
------------  
  
This could easily become dangerous, Robin thought. This Frenchman was no pompous fool like Gisburne; he was a warrior, anyone could see that. And his lady, too; despite her pregnancy she had one hand on a long dagger at her belt. Will Scarlet was glaring at the stranger with a half-defiant, half-cowed stance as if facing one of his old military officers. The Norman looked ready to kill them all if his lady's safety required it, and with that huge sword he might get a good portion of his wish. Robin spoke softly for all their sakes. "We're free men, not devils. Your lady is safe." He glanced across at Marion, and she pointedly moved her aim from the woman's horse to the knight. The big noble relaxed a little, from berserker rage into mere human anger. "What's a sack of silver to you?" Robin said reasonably. The knight reached forward for his saddlebag --- and drew the great sword. A vision took Robin without warning.  
  
The knight's lady, her face full of perfect hatred, let the hawk-jesses drop at the feet of the bishop. He cringed away; she turned and walked away from the altar. "Then no man shall have you!" the Bishop hissed and raised his crozier toward her like a spear and the end WAS a spear, needle sharp. A boy's voice screamed NAVARRE! and the knight spun where he knelt, raised his sword and flung it point first into the sorcerer- bishop's body.  
  
"Throw that sword through me, M'lord of Navarre, and I can't answer for my men," Robin said swiftly. Marion aimed at the lady's horse again, and Will Scarlet with her. "Be reasonable; I've no taste for killing or dying today."  
  
Navarre wasn't going to kill him; Robin knew it and after a moment the Norman knight knew it too. Navarre reached into a saddlebag with his left gauntlet and brought out a purse that he threw to the ground. "How do you know my name?" Navarre bit out.  
  
Robin nodded at Much; the boy lowered his bow a moment and gathered in the purse. "Perhaps I heard a legend. Give us the greatsword, too. Your other blade will protect you as far as Nottingham, but I won't have you impaling one of my people."  
  
"That sword has been in his family for five generations!" Isabeau said hotly.  
  
Navarre looked at her and took strength from it. "But not for six, if I lose you. I prefer the family to the sword." He raised the blade by its cross-shaped hilt and flung it into the ground point-first, inches from Robin. The others shuddered or cried out in protest, but Robin did not flinch. "I will not forget," Navarre said.  
  
Robin nodded. "Nothing is ever forgotten." He gestured, and the other outlaws cleared the trail.  
  
--------------  
  
Navarre was making the Sheriff of Nottingham acutely nervous, and he intended it that way. "That was no common wolf's head band," Navarre stated crisply. "They had a definite, disciplined plan of attack -- apparently a routine -- and the boy who leads them has an impressive source of intelligence. He knew my name -- which I did NOT tell to the 'monk' who led us into that trap." Navarre pushed his chair back from the dinner table and began to pace.   
  
"Robin of Loxley has only six real followers: a simpleton, a renegade monk, a heathen Saracen, two serfs and a girl," the sheriff said defensively. "He hides behind his peasants and his trees, but one day we'll catch Herne's son on open ground and make an end of the business. A waiting game, really."  
  
"Herne's son?" Isabeau asked with a glance at her husband.  
  
"A pagan forest-god," the sheriff said, glad to switch to a less controversial topic. "These Saxons are barely civilized, let alone Christian. Loxley claims Herne the Hunter guides him; mixing a bit of demon-worship in with his treason."  
  
Navarre refused to change the subject. "This waiting game, as you call it, seems dangerous for your garrison," Navarre said. "Judging by the size of this castle and the number of men standing inspection as we entered, you're about forty men under strength."  
  
Guy of Gisburne, the sheriff's right-hand man, was flushed with embarrassment and wine. He'd begun drinking hours ago, when Navarre began critiquing the Sheriff's garrison. "Those are my men," he said.  
  
Navarre pinned the younger man in place with a stare. "Precisely my point."  
  
Gisburne staggered to his feet. "We're recruiting constantly from mercenary levees..."  
  
"Meaning that you lose men constantly as well," Isabeau pointed out.  
  
Navarre nodded. "Not surprising, considering the quality of your opposition."  
  
Gisburne reached for his sword; the sheriff stood to separate the two but Navarre had already raised one hand. "I meant no irony," Navarre said. "The same tactics, and worse used, kept the Romans out of the northern half of this island for hundreds of years." Gisburne backed down and muttered an apology. Navarre fingered the short sword at his belt. "The money is nothing, but this wolf's head took my father's sword," Navarre said. "I intend to have it back -- tonight."  
  
Isabeau gasped before controlling herself. "Madness!" the sheriff said. "I wouldn't send even a whole company into Sherwood at night."  
  
"Exactly what the outlaws will think," Navarre said. "I'll use their own tactics -- taken one step further. They don't expect one man alone, and they don't expect a night attack; they'll be unprepared."  
  
Gisburne, though heavily in his cups, suspected that his courage had been insulted in some way and glared vaguely at Navarre. The sheriff shook his head. "Your theories are sound, sir, but I don't think you know exactly how dangerous Sherwood is. Especially by night. Besides the outlaws, there are wild animals, wolves...."  
  
Isabeau stifled a giggle and glanced over at her husband, who kept his reaction down to a smile. "Wolves tend to avoid me," Navarre said with a straight face. "And I am quite familiar with forests; I lived in one for two years after a difference of opinion with the Bishop of Aquila. You may have heard some of the story -- he was excommunicated for practicing black magic and all his lands placed under interdict until his death."  
  
"I see." The sheriff, caught off balance, took the easiest way out. "You are not under my jurisdiction, my lord," he told Navarre. "Do as you think best -- but I advise you to be careful."  
  
"Of course," Navarre said. He bowed curtly to his host and took his wife's arm.  
  
In their guest chamber, Isabeau sat uneasily by a narrow window and watched her husband change into black clothing. She detached a dagger and sheath from the belt of her gown. The blade had silver fittings, but it was more than a toy; it was ten inches long, double-edged and sharp. "Take this, Etienne," she said. "No doubt you'll need it more than I will."  
  
Etienne Navarre smiled and attached the dagger to the back of his belt. "Then let me exchange it fairly." He took a worn throwing knife from his belt. Navarre knelt before his wife and held the knife hilt first as if offering fealty.   
  
Isabeau made a noise like a sob and wrapped her arms around Navarre, holding his head against her shoulder. "I can't stop you going, but I wish I could go with you," she whispered.  
  
Navarre kissed the side of her neck and drew back with a small smile. "I wouldn't go at all, in that event. I'd rather lose the sword than you," he said, caressing her cheek. "I'll be careful."  
  
"See that you do," Isabeau whispered. They kissed for a long moment, then Navarre scooped up his heavy double crossbow and left the room.  
  
Navarre strode to the main gate of the castle and ordered a groom to bring Goliath to him. He would not have asked for assistance even if the sheriff's men were likely to be helpful. To Navarre, this whole problem was his fault: for suggesting this side trip, for failing to see the trap before Robin sprang it, and worst for riding with his crossbow unloaded. Two arrows against seven would have been useless, but Navarre did not care. He'd failed; chasing these outlaws on their own ground would be fitting penance.  
  
In truth, Navarre felt quite confident about the combat he anticipated. However shrewd these peasants might be, they were undoubtedly counting on the forest itself as a defense against big, awkward plodders in heavy armor. They had no way of knowing that Navarre could move as quietly and hide as easily as they could. He had remarkably good vision in the dark (perhaps a side effect of the curse lifted from him last year) and a wolf's-eye view of what went on in a forest at night. Navarre's crossbow had a shorter range than their weapons, but in deep forest that was unlikely to matter. Navarre's unique bow could also fire two shots in quick succession. A commotion at the far end of the drawbridge interrupted Navarre's thoughts; he moved to investigate it.   
  
A girl in a shabby, hooded cloak was sobbing into her hands and trying to cross the drawbridge; a stoic-faced guard blocked her path with his spear shaft. "What's going on, soldier?" Navarre automatically fell into a commanding tone, and the guardsman came to attention.  
  
"Says she's the second cook's niece, come to replace him while he's ill," the soldier said. "I've got standing orders to let no one in after dark, sir."   
  
"I cam froom... froom Ravenscar," the girl blubbered in a heavy accent. "I kanna waite all nyght ootside alane..."  
  
Navarre sighed. "Is the second cook really sick?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Been ill for days."  
  
A groom appeared at the castle gate, leading Goliath; Navarre took the horse's reins and mounted. "Go on and let her in," Navarre said. "She can't burn the place down singlehanded."  
  
Navarre thought he was only making a suggestion, but given his status and forceful personality the guard may have thought otherwise. Navarre turned Goliath toward the forest and rode off while the girl was still bubbling thanks. Neither he nor the gate guard saw a long flash of torchlight on steel when the girl's cloak gaped open for an instant. Seconds later, she was inside Nottingham castle and the portcullis closed behind her.  
  
-----------  
  
A huge black wolf loping deeper into the forest. A strange wolf; its eyes and claws glinted blue, like steel. It ignored the fire that kept other animals away from their campsite. It lunged toward Robin before anyone could draw bow, and when he scrambled back the image changed. A brown hawk dove toward Guy of Gisburne's face while Marion struggled to wield the giant sword they'd taken from the knight earlier in the day.  
  
Robin looked abruptly away from the campfire and stood up with uncharacteristic uneasiness. "What's wrong?" asked Much.  
  
"I don't know. A vision. Something about a wolf attacking me; a wolf that isn't afraid of fire. And a hawk defending Marion."  
  
"If it's a rabid wolf, she's safer where she is." Will Scarlet said. Marion had gone into Nottingham in disguise to return Navarre's sword; the outlaws had no great use for it. Besides, the Norman knight would undoubtedly demand a force of soldiers from the sheriff and start fumbling around the forest after them first thing in the morning. Returning the sword might ward off some unnecessary trouble.  
  
Robin nodded. "Marion can protect herself. A rabid wolf is a problem that won't wait, not with so many villages so close. We'll start searching tonight." He still was unsure about the meaning of his vision, but Scarlet was right; trouble was definitely coming. It would not wait for Robin to make up his mind. "We'll split into pairs and sweep the area for the wolf," Robin said. "Is that pit dug?"  
  
Little John nodded. "Ten feet deep and three wide. I can have it hidden in a few minutes."  
  
"You and Tuck stay near the pit; shoot the wolf as soon as it's driven in," Robin said. "If it's mad, we dare not take chances. Will, go with Much; Nasir can come with me." The six men strung their bows, nocked arrows and left their camp in three different directions.  
  
------------  
  
Isabeau made no attempt to sleep; she paced in front of the fireplace in the keep's main hall. She apparently had the room to herself; Isabeau had already noted that the sheriff's castle was more a military encampment than a private home. Then she heard a small liquid sound and turned suddenly.  
  
Guy of Gisburne lounged at the main table where they'd all dined an hour earlier; he sat in the sheriff's heavily decorated chair and sloshed wine into a cup. "You look worried, m'lady," he said.   
  
Isabeau stood coldly still. "That is not your seat," she commented. "Perhaps you should be worried."  
  
Gisburne grinned. "My liege lord has a pleasant custom of drinking himself to sleep each night; I believe he took it up when Robin of Loxley came. He won't wake. But what worries you, fair one? That gruff fellow you're married to? Unusual concern, in a wedding to unite lands."  
  
"We married by our own wills alone," Isabeau said. Her hand under her mantle was near Navarre's throwing knife. "Live wisely; don't speak to me that way again."  
  
Isabeau recognized that look of possessive desire; she'd seen it before, on a bishop's face. Gisburne lurched to his feet and her hand closed around the knife-hilt. "He'll never come back alive," Gisburne said. "Sherwood itself is deadly at night, and all Robin's men can spit a sparrow at a hundred paces. They'll take Navarre's heart out before he ever sees them." Gisburne reached out; Isabeau's blade sliced through his sleeve and left a thin streak of blood.  
  
Isabeau aimed the point at Gisburne's face, guessing rightly that he was vain about his appearance. She backed up a step, one only. "I'll kill you if I must," Isabeau said with perfect calmness. Navarre's anger had always been fire, easily kindled and quick to burn out; hers was ice. Gisburne fumbled for his own belt knife but could not meet those eyes; he whirled unsteadily and stormed away.   
  
Isabeau lowered the dagger slowly and laid a hand on her growing abdomen; her heart was beating faster than she cared to admit. Gisburne stamped away across the big stone-flagged room, trying to make his retreat seem like his own idea. A servant girl in a shabby, hooded cloak was carrying a tray across the far end of the room. "Scullion!" Gisburne shouted. He sent the tray flying. The peasant girl did not scream for help; she clawed out fiercely but Gisburne pinned her wrists and shoved her against the wall.  
  
"You must be mad!" Isabeau gripped her dagger tight and sailed across the room to the other woman's defense. Gisburne tore at the girl's clothing; her leather-laced bodice held together but the cloak hood slid back and released a long, thick braid of blazing hair. Isabeau gaped at Marion of Sherwood, the woman who'd aimed an arrow at her heart six hours earlier.  
  
"You!" Gisburne grinned as if he'd made a deliberate capture. "Herne's harlot." Isabeau stooped and numbly picked up the fallen pewter tray. "Time for you to answer questions -- and I look forward to asking them." Marion stood still, in dignity or panic. The two women's eyes met for a moment. Gisburne pulled Marion away from the wall again.  
  
Isabeau moved suddenly; the metal tray clanged off Gisburne's cheekbone. His head snapped back, then the knight hunched forward again as Marion kicked upward. Isabeau grabbed the younger girl's wrist and they ran together up the wide stairs. Isabeau and Navarre's room was the second door at the head of the stairs; Marion pushed the door open and Isabeau bolted it closed again on the inside.  
  
Navarre's great sword glittered on the bed; Isabeau was too tired to deal with the additional surprise right now. She stood with her back against the door, closed her eyes and breathed hard. Marion pulled her damaged clothing together. "My thanks," she said.  
  
Isabeau stood up slowly. She indicated the bed. "Why bring the sword back? And why YOU?"   
  
Marion sat down slowly. "I insisted; I know the castle. I lived here for a time. And the sword has no value to us; it would have just provoked one more battle."  
  
It already has, Isabeau thought. "Don't thank me," she said. "I'll have no one raped -- but you're a common criminal who threatened Etienne's life. You'll be arrested again as soon as I can find a sober guardsman to take charge of you." Isabeau still held Navarre's dagger.  
  
"I see." Marion's eyes moved from Isabeau's weapon to the bolted door. She reached for Navarre's heavy sword lying across the bed.  
  
Heavy pounding from outside. "Open this door or I'll break it down, you bitches!!!" Gisburne shouted.   
  
--------------  
  
Navarre had learned much while he was under the Bishop's curse; the hardest lesson had been patience but he found it useful. Now he lay at full length in the underbrush of Sherwood, invisible in his black clothing. The scheme was a bit of a risk, but this seemed to be a main trail; he had hopes. Sooner than he'd expected, Navarre's quick ears picked out muffled footsteps. Two of Robin Hood's men came into sight, the mercenary-type and the boy. The sheriff had called them Will Scarlet and Much; each had an arrow on the string but Navarre considered Scarlet more dangerous. Just a little farther... Regrettably, Much reached the spot first.  
  
A loop of rope tightened around the boy's ankle and yanked him off the ground; he wailed and grabbed for the noose. "Hold it! Stay still!" Scarlet snarled. A longbow takes two hands; Scarlet had to put down his bow to draw his knife.  
  
Navarre came out of the bushes; Will Scarlet lunged and slashed with the knife. He evaded Navarre's shortsword, but Navarre dodged as well and hit Scarlet in the head with its steel pommel. Will Scarlet staggered but charged at the knight again, knife out for an underhanded stab. Navarre grabbed the blade with one mail-clad glove. "ROBIN!" Scarlet bellowed a warning. Navarre hit him with the other gauntlet. In spite of his size and strength Scarlet fell, probably with damaged ribs. Navarre disarmed Will Scarlet, bound his wrists with more of the rope and and left him half-conscious on the ground below the dangling Much.  
  
--------------  
  
"I'm fine," Isabeau said, forcing her voice to calmness. "She IS under arrest; I have her."   
  
"I said open it!" Gisburne continued pounding on the door.  
  
Marion looked at the window behind them; it was actually an archer's loophole, barely six inches wide. "Don't," she said, advising rather than pleading. "He's as angry at you as at me -- and Gisburne commands the garrison. None of the castle staff will oppose him, whatever he does to us."  
  
"Us? I see no similarity," Isabeau said sharply.  
  
Marion hiked up her skirts, revealing rough leather buskins. She drew a dagger from the top of one boot, but pointedly made no threat toward Isabeau. "Two chaste wives trying to remain so; I think that's enough common ground," Marion said. More pounding outside, and a shouted curse. Isabeau nodded reluctantly. "Where is your lord, incidentally? I saw him leave the castle as I entered," Marion said.  
  
Isabeau shook her head. "I'll trust you for my life -- not his. Help me move this table." The heavy oak door was intact, but the slender bolt was beginning to tear loose under repeated blows from outside. The two women pushed the bulky piece of furniture across the door.  
  
Isabeau sat down heavily, her face white. Marion started toward her in concern. "I'm fine. The baby won't come for months yet."  
  
"You hope," Marion said tightly. "Stay there." She sat on the edge of the table, adding her weight to the barricade. The pounding was unsteady now. "Maybe he'll sober himself up," Marion commented quietly.  
  
"What are you doing in there?" Gisburne shouted.  
  
Isabeau shook her head. "No."  
  
Marion set her dagger point-first in the tabletop. Lamplight danced on the blade as door, table, and dagger shook from the periodic blows. Isabeau looked at the flickering light and remembered a similar flash of light from a steel arrowhead. "Would you really have killed me for the sake of a robbery?" Isabeau asked.  
  
"You were perfectly safe," Marion admitted. "Robin wouldn't see a woman harmed." She smiled grimly. "But if your lord had killed Robin..."  
  
"You said earlier that you were a wife." Isabeau suddenly understood.   
  
Marion nodded. "His." The expression in her eyes softened.  
  
*They're outlawed and exiled -- but together. Luckier than Etienne and I were....* Isabeau cut off the thought. She wanted to feel no sympathy for these people; they were still a threat to Navarre, and Isabeau herself would not be under siege except for their interference. "I didn't know demon-followers believed in marriage," she snapped.  
  
Marion's green eyes smoldered. "You obviously know less than nothing about Herne," she said.  
  
"What would you call him, an archangel?" Isabeau retorted.  
  
"Possibly!" Marion was almost shouting. "Do you think the Church is so perfect that God needs no other servants?"  
  
The last word raised echoes from the high, narrow ceiling of the room. "No, I don't," Isabeau said. "Navarre and I were cursed for two years by a Bishop who sold himself to Satan for hate of us. Navarre killed him, with that sword." She glanced behind her.  
  
A new blow on the door reminded both women that they had other problems. "Open the door this instant, Lady Isabeau," Gisburne said loudly. "I've brought a battleaxe. Give me Marion of Sherwood and no harm will come to you."  
  
He may mean it, Isabeau reflected. But she turned and locked her small hands around the hilt of Navarre's sword.  
  
"Don't!" Marion came off the table and physically moved Isabeau back. "You could kill yourself and your baby together. We'll think of something." She lifted the sword as if it were a bar of lead, then sighed and lowered it back to the bed.  
  
--------------  
  
John and Tuck had covered the deep pit with leaves and dirt over a lacing of thin branches; it looked like a slight hollow in the floor of the clearing. They stood to one side of the pit, bows strung and arrows nocked. "A mad wolf. I'd rather face a score of the Sheriff's men," Tuck said.  
  
"I thought I heard a shout," John said. "Perhaps the others have found the thing."  
  
"Perhaps..." A rushing sound, then another, and two short crossbow quarrels stabbed a tree inches above their heads. Both outlaws instantly dropped to the ground. "Soldiers!" Tuck whispered. "Two at least. But here, at night?"  
  
"It seems so." John turned his head to watch a wide arc of the clearing. "I've no wolf's eyes; I see nothing. We need a torch."  
  
A loud rustle in the bushes; John scrambled to one knee and fired an arrow. They heard a sudden thud. "That's one of them!" John said happily. "Quick, before they can reload."  
  
Tuck was busy with flint and steel; he skillfully produced a spark and blew it onto an oil-soaked torch they'd brought. "Maybe you've hit the sheriff himself!" Tuck raised the torch.  
  
A crossbow of dark wood and steel lay in the center of the clearing. It had two bows, top and bottom, and both had been fired. "There's only one man," John said. "I think I've seen that bow before." He stepped toward it.  
  
The ground collapsed under the giant's feet, and Little John fell into the wolf pit with a howl of surprise. Tuck heard a faint sound behind him, but before he could turn someone shoved him forward into the same hole. Navarre retrieved his crossbow and disappeared.  
  
---------------  
  
Robin stopped suddenly. "Someone is in the forest with us," he said. "He's very close."  
  
"The knight who throws the great sword?" Nasir asked.  
  
Robin stared at the Saracen. "Why do you ask? I saw a wolf and a hawk."  
  
"You called him Navarre. I once saw his coat of arms," Nasir said. "A wolf, and a hawk."  
  
Robin nodded. "Yes." His sense of being watched grew stronger. It was less a vision than a hunch based on years in the forest, but Robin knew someone was nearby. Nasir read his leader's expression even in the near darkness and put away his bow in favor of a sword and knife. Nasir, an expert tracker, scanned the edges of the clearing. "A wolf. If he is here he moves like one." The underbrush rustled at one side of the clearing, several yards back and to Robin's left.   
  
Robin nocked an arrow. "I'll cover you." The Saracen moved toward the source of the noise. Nasir crouched by the bush, then stuck his sword point-first in the ground and reached out. "What is it?" Robin asked.  
  
"Old trick... a pulling thread." Nasir tugged the string -- then something tugged him. The bushes shook again, with genuine violence. Finally, one man stood up. No chance of a mistake; he was taller and heavier than Nasir. Robin fired.  
  
The man in black seemed to blur; his sword came up in a silver arc and Robin clearly heard the arrowshaft snap. He'd heard of the trick, never seen it; this knight was fast. Robin drew Albion. "What do you want?" he said in a steady voice.  
  
The man came closer; it was indeed Navarre. "My father's sword."  
  
*If I tell him his sword is at the castle he'll leave ... and if Marion is still there when he reaches Nottingham, she'll be caught.* "You're doing fine with that one," Robin assured him. Navarre attacked.  
  
Albion saved him, in more ways than one. Robin was primarily a bowman, not a swordsman, but the enchanted blade gave him a little more skill than he really possessed. Then, too, Navarre was fighting with a shortsword; Albion was six inches longer than Navarre's blade. *Keep him at sword's length; if this becomes a fist fight I'm finished.* Robin was faster on his feet, Navarre taller and stronger; neither would surrender.   
  
Marion and the knight's lady stood in a chamber in Nottingham; the rhythmic strokes of a battleaxe on the door seemed to shake the world and they had only managed to move one piece of furniture in front of the door. The oak door submitted and crumbled in a handspan section; a hand and wrist darted inside and reached for the bolt. The birdlike noblewoman slashed out with a dagger; the man's hand drew back, bloody, but the bolt was undone. Another shoulder-smash on the door and it jumped open, pushing the table back several inches.  
  
Robin felt himself tackled, thrown down and disarmed but he hardly cared. The vision faded; he saw Navarre standing over him, holding Albion now. "Don't be an idiot," Robin said. "We have more important problems."  
  
"Listen to me, outlaw..." Navarre aimed Albion at Robin's throat, and the sword of Wayland almost wrenched itself out of his hand. Robin was ready; he brought both feet up into Navarre's stomach. The knight bucked at the waist. Robin leaped to his feet and retrieved his sword.  
  
"Read the runes on the blade," Robin advised. "'Herne's Son is my master; I cannot slay him.' She's in danger."  
  
"She?" Navarre's eyes were cold.  
  
"Your Isabeau." Robin hadn't known the name until that moment. "And Marion, and your sword if you love it so dearly. They're all at Nottingham Castle, and someone is attacking the ladies."  
  
"You're lying." Navarre didn't seem to believe his own words. "How do you know?"  
  
"A vision," Robin said. "You don't have to believe me. Just go. We have no horses here; you're the only one who might reach the castle in time." Navarre stood still. "Why should I lie?" Robin said. "Had I wanted to kill you, I'd do it now."  
  
Navarre nodded. "You remind me of another plausible thief I know. He was telling the truth; for Isabeau's sake I'll chance that you are as well." He retrieved his own sword, bowed curtly and strode toward the edge of the forest.  
  
"Light and Darkness go with you," Robin whispered.  
  
-------------------  
  
The great hall at Nottingham Castle was deserted and disorderly; spilled wine near the fireplace, a fallen tray and shattered dishes at the foot of the stairs. Navarre drew his shortsword and crept upstairs to the guest room. The bedroom door was closed, but broken and scarred as if by axe blows. "Isabeau?" Navarre said.  
  
She opened the door; Navarre all but dropped the sword in his haste to embrace her. "I thought you were in danger," he whispered into her hair.  
  
"We were -- for a moment." Navarre caught the impish tone in his wife's voice and looked into the rest of the room.  
  
Marion of Sherwood, one eye blackened but smiling like a satisfied cat, was sitting on a squirming bundle which appeared to be a man. Someone had thrown a cloak over his head. Several turns of rope over the cloak pinned his arms to his sides. Navarre's greatsword glittered against one wall. "We were just talking about you, Captain," she greeted him.  
  
Navarre matched her composure with his best courtly smile. "Marion, I presume. Who's the gentleman playing footstool for you?"  
  
Marion stood; Isabeau cut the ropes with Navarre's dagger and together they unwrapped a bruised, red-faced Guy of Gisburne. "M'lord!" he stammered. "How did you..." Gisburne pulled himself together with a supreme effort. "Your wife has harbored a known criminal, interfered with a lawful arrest, assaulted an officer of the king..."  
  
"Oh?" Navarre said with a faint, terrible smile. Gisburne subsided. Navarre took his wife's hand as if it were the most precious thing on earth. He turned to Marion. "I suspect your young wolfshead needs you, madam. At the moment he has two liegemen down a pit, one tied to a tree, and two others with aching heads." It was Marion's turn to show surprise; she handled it well, Navarre noted. "May we show you out?"  
  
Gisburne scrambled to his feet. "OUT? You're proposing to release a notorious highwayman under my very nose? I can't allow ..."  
  
"If you think about it, Sir Guy, you'll likely find you were asleep when this all occurred," Navarre said lightly. "For if you were here, I'd have to ask you why you battered down the door to my wife's room." Guy met the ice-blue stare for only a few seconds before he nodded rapidly and limped to the door.  
  
Navarre met Isabeau's smile and then turned. "My lady?" He offered Marion his other arm, and the three of them headed for the main gate.  
  
  



End file.
